


Mark's Return  -  follows Samdhi

by ultrapsychobrat



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: A story in the Samdhi universe., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-07
Updated: 2010-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-13 13:39:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultrapsychobrat/pseuds/ultrapsychobrat





	Mark's Return  -  follows Samdhi

The name leaped off the engraved card, bold black letters that held him mesmerized. Mitchell Raesons...dark gold hair and pale eyes, cleft chin, sensual mouth that smiled or sneered with equal ease...Mark...of nightmares and dreams....

“Something wrong?”

The quiet voice broke apart the unwanted memories, calling him back. He looked up into the curious blue eyes, and the image from his mind was dispelled by reality. How could this man have ever reminded him of Mark? Slanting rays of the afternoon sun gilded platinum hair, haloing the beautiful face, long fair lashes sparkled, iridescence over crystal.

“Starsk? What's the matter?” A slight frown accompanied the words, concern replacing curiosity.

“Nothing,” he mumbled hastily and turned away, carrying the invitation into the bedroom. After all these years.... He looked again at the engraved message.

Ms. Madelyn Andrews  
requests the pleasure of the company of  
Mr. David Starsky and guest  
at a reception in honor of  
Mr. Mitchell Raesons  
following the opening night performance of  
A NEW ENDING  
on the evening of Saturday the fourteenth of June  
at half after eleven  
Polo Lounge

__

_What about Mitchell? That starts with an 'M'._

_What's wrong with Mark? It's your name._

_No class, Davey. I want something everyone will remember._

 

He jumped as arms slid around his waist, startling him into the present. Breath, warm and intimate, whispered into his neck, sending flames of longing sliding along his veins. To hell with Mark Rodgers and Mitchell Raesons....

He turned in the embrace, tossing the reminder of his past to the floor. “You want somethin'?” he murmured against the soft mouth, preventing any answer with a deep kiss that left him gasping and shaken. _Hutch...perfect love...mine...._ Strong hands traveled the length of his back, pulling him closer, kneading, exciting. “Love you,” he whispered, capturing the willing mouth again. _Always...always..._

~~~~~~~~

He lay, sated and complete, stroking the tumbled golden hair which fell across his chest into some semblance or order. Hutch mumbled a protest and reached up to drag his hand down to the parted lips. Small, sharp nibbles turned to light kisses and then ceased. The odor of sex hung over the room, primaeval power, calling up race-memories of a million years. _I am man—created, creator._ He wanted to throw up the shades, push the windows wide, and yell to all who would listen... _he's mine, mine... Look at him! Look at this man who's mine._ Involuntarily his arms tightened about Hutch, making claim to what was his.

“Hey!”

Hands shoved at him, demanding release for the trapped body. He relaxed his hold , embarrassed. “Time to shower,” he improvised hastily.

“That's my line.”

The long frame stretched, rolling away from him. He watched as the line of shadow on the fair skin rippled and reshaped itself into new patterns. Jungle cat replete.

“What's your hurry, huh?” Hutch turned back to him, smiling, teasing. “Got a hot date tonight?”

Laughter sparkled in the pale eyes, drawing him into a world of shared love and delight. He smiled and reached out a hand to smooth the damp, tousled hair again. “Could be. You busy?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Where we're going.”

“How's the Polo Lounge suit you, blondie?” The words were out ahead of thought, spell words calling up images of Mark's well-remembered smile turning bitter with jealousy and regret. _Mine, Mark. This one who makes you look tarnished and cheap. This one is mine._

“I'm not that hard to please.” Hutch laughed and sat up. “Besides, I don't think they let peons in.”

 _Cheer up, Davey. You'll find yourself a nice homey guy someday who'll love staying home and eating pizza._ “They do if you've got an invitation.”

Hutch looked at him, half-smiling still, waiting for an answering grin. A joke, still time to pretend. _Face it, Davey, you wouldn't know what to do with fame and fortune._

“You're serious, aren't you?” There was surprise in the voice, and something else.... Suspicion?

He shrugged and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, stretching. “We don't have to go. Just thought you might like to meet a few celebrities.”

“How'd you get an invitation to something like that?”

“Connections.” _Just think, Davey, someday you'll be able to say you slept with Mitchell Raesons. Not that anyone'll believe you._ He leaned down, retrieved the engraved card, and handed it over.

Several moments passed in silence while Hutch studied the invitation. Finally, he looked up and met Starsky's gaze. “Which one's the 'connection'?” Casual words which did nothing to blunt the cutting edges of the eyes.

A flash of pleasure at the implied jealousy surfaced, quickly smothered by fear. Fool! Why was he courting disaster like this? Hutch, so willing to believe love was an elaborate scam, would need very little to make him walk away forever. Was scoring off Mark worth that possibility? The eyes waited, unwavering. All escape routes closed. “Raeson's PR man. We were in the Army together—you know, buddies.”

“Yeah, I know.” Shadows of resignation—nothing ever new, never again. “Sure, why not?” A smile eased the tension. “My tux is at the cleaners, though. Will my glitter queen outfit do?”

Committed. “Not on your life, baby. Too many people in that crowd might get ideas about who you're with.” Why couldn't Hutch have said no?

~~~~~~~

The Polo Lounge—famous haunt of the rich and the pretty—looked very much like any other hotel cocktail lounge. It wasn't pretentious or even particularly elegant, yet an aura of specialness definitely surrounded the place. He glanced at Hutch, wondering if the awkwardness he felt was shared. But the level blue gaze and relaxed posture spoke of total ease. And why not? Hutch looked as though he spent all his nights in places like this.

“Where's your friend?”

The question wasn't unexpected. He frowned and peered around the dimly lighted room. Men and women clothed in casually expensive evening wear, laughed and talked in the low, self-confident tones of sophistication—strangers, everyone. Mark wasn't here yet.

“Don't see 'im.” He smiled at Hutch and nodded toward the back of the room where a few tables were unoccupied. “Wanna sit down, have a drink? We can watch how the other half get their jollies.”

Midnight. Still no Mark...Mitchell. He had to remember that. No one new had arrived for several minutes, and most everyone was seated now. He supposed the grand entrance was about to begin.

“You're Mitch's understudy, aren't you?”

Starsky looked away from the door to the woman at the next table who had spoken to Hutch. She was one of the pretty lookalikes scattered throughout the room—blonde, slender, mouth permanently fixed in a smile of subtle invitation. Window dressing, she'd probably never spoken more than hello to 'Mitch'.

He directed a raised eyebrow at Hutch, who was shaking his head.

“No, afraid not.”

“Oh, I could have sworn...I mean, you sort of look him. But you must have heard that before.” Her smile widened, conveying intimacy.

 _He sort of looked like you...not a lot, but...._ Worms of fear crawled through his gut. _...like you...like you...._ But the blue eyes smiled at him, before he shook his head again. The woman started to speak, but was forestalled by the lowering of the already dim lights.

All eyes turned toward the doorway, a moment of silence fell, then the waiting crowd burst into applause as a subtle spot picked out the smiling face of the honoree. Mitchell Raesons, star of theatre's ever popular light musical stage, paused, bowed, and lifted his hands in greeting—seeming incantation to restore the light.

Starsky gripped his empty cocktail glass in trembling fingers. Mark, fair hair shining, eyes sparkling, lapping up the attention with no apologies for his greed. Six years fell away, taking with them the hurt and bitterness, and he was applauding the loudest of all—pride bursting in his chest, love flowing from his heart. That was his Mark up there taking a third curtain call. His Mark who stole the show. His Mark who was going to be a star.

“That's him, huh? Thought he'd be taller.”

The words tumbled Starsky back into the present. He gave what he hoped was a casual shrug and eased his death grip on the glass—pain shot through the cramped fingers.

“Thank you, thank you all,” sounded over the noise, as Mitchell Raesons moved into the room, shaking hands and speaking with the well-wishers who crowded around him.

*********  
*********

“You want another drink?”

“Huh?”

The blue eyes that met his were vague and uncomprehending. “I said,” Hutch repeated, “do you want another drink?” He watched as Starsky made a visible effort to direct his attention to the question.

“Sure. Why not?”

Hutch got to his feet. “Be back in a bit,” he said and moved to the bar, puzzled by Starsky's behavior. The entire evening had been strange, starting with the invitation to an exclusive bash like this.

He let his gaze wander over the liquor and drug happy crowd. Money and the closed circle of privilege screamed at him. Two hundred guests at most, all but the odd pretty face here because they were important to the career of Raesons. The homey welcome to his 'friends' hadn't fooled Hutch for one moment. This wasn't a family party by any stretch of the imagination.

Nagging doubts from earlier resurfaced. How did Starsky rate a place at this gathering? Could a PR man really wrangle such a thing? And where was this 'buddy'? When had Starsky seen him last? This week? The one before?

Hutch pushed his way between two laughing groups and signaled one of the harried bartenders. He turned to look back across the room while he waited for his order, searching out Starsky. There he sat, the dark head bent as if in thought. What was he partner contemplating so solemnly? A shiver of unease ran through him. He really knew so little about this man.

“Hello. I don't think we've been introduced.”

The warm, rich voice startled him out of his thoughts.

“I'm Mitchell Raesons.”

He automatically grasped the extended hand and found himself looking into smiling blue eyes. “Ken Hutchinson,” he supplied, smiling in response to the open friendliness. His hand was held a fraction longer than customary and then released.

“Are you in theatre...may I call you Ken?” Raesons rested a hand on the bar at Hutch's back—relaxed, sure of his acceptance.

“Afraid not. Just a fan.” He groaned inwardly and felt himself blush as the hackneyed phrase slipped out. He'd never seen a single production in which Raesons had appeared.

“That's always nice to hear.”

The clear blue eyes laughed at him, and somehow he knew Raesons wasn't fooled.

“So, what is your line of work, Ken?”

Thank God the actor hadn't pushed the point. “Law enforcement. I'm with the L.A.P.D., Metro.”

“Ahhh...of course,” Raesons murmured, his gaze drifting out across the room. “L.A.'s finest.”

Hutch followed the direction of the preoccupied gaze, his stomach muscles contracting on something strange and disturbing as he encountered the brooding face of his lover.

“Your drinks, sir.”

Reluctantly, he turned to the bartender, reached for his wallet, but was forestalled by Raesons hand on his arm.

“On my tab, please,” Raesons said to the attendant.

The man nodded and left before Hutch could object.

“Please,” Raesons repeated, removing his hand.

Hutch shrugged and picked up the glasses, but hesitated before walking away. He met the brilliant eyes, searching for some clue to unravel the tangle of his thoughts. Who was Mitchell Raesons?” And where did he fit in his partner's life? Because it hadn't been himself Starsky had been killing with his eyes.

An eyebrow rose in response to his unspoken questions, but Hutch resisted the urge to voice his doubts and turned to go.

“Tell David I concede.”

The words pierced his mind, and something ugly rose from the wound they left. _Tell David...David...._ He whirled, sloshing cold liquid across one hand, but Raesons was gone—castled and inaccessible.

~~~~~~~~~

He set the glasses on the table, but remained standing, staring down into the guarded eyes of this man who claimed to love him. _David...tell David...._

“What took you so long?” False lightness, casualness belied by clenched jaw and deathly pose.

“I think we'd better go.” The dark face paled, and regret for the coldness of his voice flickered and then died under the rough hand of anger.

Without waiting or looking back, he strode from the room, through the genteel lobby, and out the entrance. Night-cool breeze stroked his face, ruffled his hair, and he breathed deeply, trying to calm himself. He was over-reacting, jumping to unproven conclusions.... _Goddamned lying son-of-a-bitch!_

A silent Starsky appeared at his side, but he couldn't trust himself to look at the man or even acknowledge his presence.

~~~~~~~~~~

He watched the early morning traffic flow by, attempting to lose himself in the light and sound. _Tell David...._ Eddies of white and red, star galaxies, hot and deadly. _Tell David...._ Storm rush of tires on pavement, hurricane force, take cover. _Tell David...._

“What did he say to you?”

“Not now, not here.”

“Hutch—“

“Leave it, goddamn it. Just leave it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Silence and darkness descended as Starsky drew in next to the cottage and switched off the car's engine. Hutch let the false peace sink into his soul for a few seconds before he reached over and pulled the keys from the ignition.

“Hey!”

He ignored the protest and climbed out, stretching to relieve cramped muscles. “You comin'?” he called over his shoulder and walked up the path to the house.

The heavy slam of metal on metal reached him as he unlocked the front door and flipped on the light. He left the door standing wide, proceeding to the refrigerator to grab two cold bottles of beer. The metal caps on linoleum sounded simultaneously with Starsky's entrance.

“What the hell do you think you're doing? Give me those keys.”

He set the bottles on the counter and watched the menace approach. Moving deliberately, he turned, pushed the window open, and hurled the tangle of keys into the night.

“You bastard!”

Rough hands jerked him around to face blazing anger. “Where the fuck do you get off pullin' an asshole stunt like that?”

“Your friend Mitchell gave me a message for you, David.” He smiled into the stunned eyes, and broke free of the slackened grasp. “Here, have one.” The bottle he offered was taken automatically. He picked up the other and sauntered into the living room, every move calculated to give the impression of nonchalance. “Didn't know Raesons did his own PR work.” Placing the beer on the coffee table, he stripped off his jacket and tie and tossed them over the back of the sofa, then sat. “Some Army buddy, lover. All G.I.'s should be so lucky.”

He glanced across to where Starsky still stood, face drawn and gray. “Don't look so guilty, sweetheart. Your closet's your own business, and I never thought you were a virgin, but I do have one little question.”

Starsky looked at him then, eyes lost and empty, and he was tumbled into a void of darkness—weightless, directionless, utterly and forever alone...alone...alone.... He sat forward quickly to pick up the bottle of beer, took a long swallow of the cold liquid, and forced away the urge to hold out his arms and drown everything in a storm of passion. Staring at the brown bottle as if to read answers in its amber depths, he said, “You lied to me. I want to know why.”

“Mitchell Raesons is Mark Rodgers.”

 _I loved someone else...._ He stood up, unprepared for the sickness which gathered in his stomach or the sense of loss which gnawed away at his heart. “And he wants you back.” The whispered words carried the taste of alum—bitter on his tongue.

Starsky took a step forward, visibly startled. “What did he say?”

“His message was 'Tell David I concede.' I guess that's pretty clear. What's the matter, did you think you'd lost your little game for the big star's favors?” He drew in a ragged breath and walked over to stare out the front window. Only his own reflection greeted his stinging eyes. _He sort of looked like you...._ “So what was I, the final raise? 'See what I can get if I can't get you?' Guess that's a compliment, huh? Second best to an up-and-coming Broadway star. Thanks for—“

“Will you for God's sake shut up? That selfish bastard didn't want anything but to rub his success in my face. I was either supposed to stay away with a bad case of sour grapes, or show up and kiss ass for a smile.”

Starsky's image appeared by his side in the window, and Hutch turned to face him, confused by the words he was hearing.

“Yes, I wanted Mark to see you, to eat his heart out, because you're mine. It was a stupid thing to do, I know that. He's not worth the effort, never has been. And I don't care what he thinks. I realized that before we even got there, but I guess I was afraid to tell you the truth. I love you, Hutch, and I'm sorry.”

 _...to eat his heart out...mine...._ Bitterness filled his soul. _Puerta Vallarta...Paris...Rome...Antonio will simply die, my dear...yes, beautiful, isn't he...I'd like you to meet...._ All his life...all his memories.... “Love? You parade me like some prize you've won to make your ex-boyfriend jealous, and you dare call that love?”

The blue eyes, wide and dark with misery, pleaded for understanding, called to him. “Hutch, I'm sorry.”

A tentative hand reached for him, but he shrugged it off, pacing back into the center of the room. “Stay away from me,” he warned, as Starsky moved to follow. “And don't look at me like that! You and those damned eyes of yours. What right do you have? I've had a hundred who'd have been more than happy to give me everything there tonight just to be able to say I belonged to them. Another pretty possession to show off and have admired. But you were supposed to love me, and now I find out you're just like all the rest, every last motherfucking one of them.” Trembling and horrified to find himself on the verge of tears, he slammed out the back door. He'd find the lying bastard's keys and tell him to get the hell out. He stumbled over a lawn chair, swore savagely, and rubbed the abused shin.

The screen door opened and closed quietly. Soft footsteps approached, stopping just behind him. “Are you okay?”

 _No, goddamn you, no, no no!_ “Fine.”

“You'll never find them in the dark, you know.”

Hands slipped down his arms to grip his wrists lightly. “Let go of me,” he whispered, shivering, but unable to pull away.

His words were ignored as the warmth of Starsky's body pressed close, hands sliding around his waist.

“I'm not gonna let you throw me away, too. Tonight was a mistake. Nothing like it'll ever happen again. But it doesn't mean I don't love you.”

Gentle lips nuzzled at his neck, sending sharp burst of fire licking along his veins. Shuddering violently, he turned and pulled the unresisting man into a crushing embrace. The mouth opened to his, and he thrust deep, forcing a moan of surrender. _Bastard, bastard...._

Using his greater strength unmercifully, he bore his lover down, down, until they sprawled in a writhing heap on the damp lawn. He tore Starsky's shirt open, exposing the warm flesh to his punishing hands and mouth. “Cocksucker. Cheap, lying fagot. Bitch. I'll teach you to use me.” Each growled word was punctuated by a sharp, blood-drawing bite, which elicited gasps and stifled yelps of pain, and the more active resistance of fists and knees.

Light flashed across the yard and was gone—a car. Struggling to his feet, he dragged Starsky up beside him and wrestled him through the door of the house.

“I'll kill you, you sonuvabitch!”

Hissed promise, and he was falling, caught by a hooked foot, pulling his victim/attacker with him. Winded, they both lay still for several seconds, panting, locked in the grip of anger. He reached out tangling his hands in the curly hair, and drew the face of this man he hated, but couldn't resist to him. “You talk big, but we both know you won't kill me. You like what you've been getting too much. And you haven't seen anything yet, baby.” He felt the rising excitement in Starsky beneath him and devoured the pliant mouth . _God, oh yes...so good...forever, forever...._ “See?” he whispered against the kiss-swollen lips, letting a hand slip down the flat stomach to stroke the bulging crotch with hard, sure movements. Heat greeted his seeking fingers, burning through the fabric to scorch his flesh. _Want you...want you...._

A groan rose from Starsky, deep and urgent. “You've got two seconds to get your clothes off.”

**********  
**********

“Jesus Christ! Yes, you motherfuckinsonuvabitch, yes! ...ahhh...deeper...deeper...more...more goddamn you! ...more...more...come on!” He tore at the sheets, shoving against the probing tongue, brutal fingers, wanting more, oh, god, so much more.... He was held still while he was penetrated with overwhelming force, deeper and deeper. Hands, rough and knowing, seized his throbbing cock, pulling him down into mindless ecstasy, into the center of existence. The quaking began then, rumbling up from the darkness, gathering power, faster, faster, seeking the light with certainty, irreversible cataclysm, shaking apart all reality. He rode the fountain of fire, screaming imprecations against this destruction, floated weightless for endless moments at its apex, then fell slowly in upon himself, spent, perhaps dead...it didn't matter.

Low voiced endearments, hands wet with semen stroking him, calling him back from oblivion. Uncurling his cramped and aching body, he turned onto his side. Glittering blue crystal met his gaze, lasers burning away his soul. He tried to smile, felt it catch somewhere midpoint, and closed his eyes against the tears. “Love you,” he whispered, reaching blindly for the long, golden man.

Arms enfolded him, drawing him into warmth and tenderness. Soft kisses feathered his face and neck, soothed, restored. Time passed on silent feet, lulling him into semi-sleep.

“Not yet, baby,” whispered into his ear. “Not yet.”

The words rumbled through the chest on which he rested, and then he was being pushed down into the softness of pillows, his mouth opened and ravaged, his cock fondled and teased.

Hutch pulled away fractionally, staring into his eyes, whispering against his mouth. “Gonna split you in half tonight, fuck you 'til you scream for me to stop, then I'm gonna fuck you again. Gonna shove my cock so far up your ass you're gonna choke on it, then I'm gonna shove it farther. You ready, baby? Huh? Are you?”

The breath caught in his throat as a sharp bite on his lower lip punctuated the promises/threats. Excitement flickered, fueled by the danger he sensed in the murmured words. This was a Hutch he didn't know—overpowering, sure of everything, ready and able to do exactly what he promised. He shuddered as a hand slipped between his open thighs to hold his balls in a firm grasp.

“So far...all I've heard...is talk—cheap currency, lover,” he managed to gasp out. “Ahhggghh!” he cried, thrashing beneath the clutching fingers, but making no real attempt to escape. Only a fool ran from heaven.

He groaned, struggling feebly to escape the sharp, cold fumes that curled around his face. A hard slap to his cheek, indrawn breath of startled pain, and the amyl rush spread like flood tide—blurring his mind, wiping out all sensation but the hard shaft of flesh piercing his body and the pulsing need of his own rigid cock. Night falling into day as he came again, hearing his hoarse screams splitting the stillness of dawn, echoing forever and ever and ever....

~~~~~~~~

He breathed carefully, willing the drumming pain in his temples to cease. Sunlight peeked around the edges of the window shades, but thankfully too muted to cause discomfort. Hutch lay face down at his side, still deep in exhausted sleep.

He smiled then, and reached out to run one finger along the faintly stubbled jaw line. How would he have ever guessed? His smile faded, and he shifted onto his back staring at the shadowed ceiling, puzzled. Not once in their two weeks of almost constant sex had Hutch made any move to take the dominant role, and Starsky had merely assumed that that's the way it had always been. But the man who'd fucked him senseless last night had been no novice trying his wings. Every move had been well-practiced, perfected in experience.

Who was this man he loved? What was he? And what kind of relationship had he entered into with this stranger who had taken his soul and now his body hostage? And, oh God, he wanted him again, now.

  



End file.
